The Adventure of Allen Lloyd
by self-poisoner
Summary: Based on "The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton." When a blackmailer pulls one over on Scotland Yard, the task is given to Sherlock and John of dealing with it. And it certainly gets interesting. Casefic, oneshot, no pairings. Rated mostly for language.


Title: The Adventure of Allen Lloyd

Pairing: Insinuations of Johnlock in spots. Or spot. Singular.

Rating: PG-13, for language

Warning: Liberal amounts of crack, but only as far as the conception of the actual plot.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock (the show), the characters and _CHAS_ are public domain, and Joss Whedon (I think) owns _Sense and Sensitivity_, the episode of Angel with Allen Lloyd.

Notes: This is my attempt to combine the unmeshy things that are, in no particular order: _Sherlock, Angel_, and _The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton_. Specifically, setting a blackmail case in the 21st century (_Sherlock_), using a plot device shamelessly yoinked from _Angel_, and loosely (and I do mean loosely) basing the proceedings on _CHAS_. The dynamic between the BBC Holmes and Watson is, I feel, too different from Doyle's Holmes and Watson to use the original plot. Also, I've given Anderson the tentative first name of Jacob.

Note for fun: I avidly slash Holmes and Watson, any canon, and you, dear reader, have no _idea_ how many times I typed something and then erased it because it sounded like innuendo. I left a few of them in, though, because I just. Couldn't. Help. Myself.

"_I believe that I am one of the most long-suffering of mortals…"_ (Watson)

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Subject: The Adventure of the Man With Two First Names

*As usual, names of victims, villains, etc. have been changed to keep people from going vigilante on us.

It all began innocently enough, with Sherlock and Lestrade having an argument. I couldn't be bothered enough to sort it out, and just let it run its course.

"It's what?" Sherlock sounded utterly displeased as Lestrade leaned in the doorway.

"Mandatory," Lestrade repeated.

"I don't work for the Yard," Sherlock stated.

"You get called in on half of my cases!"

"I'm not _paid_."

"So help me, Sherlock Holmes, I will call your brother. He's on speed dial."

"Fine, fine! I'll attend your inane sensitivity seminar in body only."

"All I'm asking," Lestrade shrugged. "Bring John if you like." I almost piped up in protest, but Sherlock moved in my defence before I had gathered a suitable reply.

"I would not put John through undue suffering."

"'S not so bad. You can sit next to me."

"Yes, and then we can roast marshmallows and make s'mores!" Sherlock fell back on the sofa with a w_humph._ "Go away, Lestrade, text me if anything _interesting_ comes up."

Lestrade chuckled to himself as he left 221B.

Which left me dealing with a sulking Sherlock who had been obligated to go to a sensitivity seminar held at Scotland Yard-largely idiots in his mind. Lovely, no?

There are, generally speaking, two ways to deal with a sulking Sherlock. Option one is to get him to talk, by any means necessary. Threatening to dump his experiments down the sink, for example. (Unless said experiments are highly corrosive. But that's a case for another day.)

Option two is to wait it out, which works far better, but takes far longer. Sherlock holds grudges like no one else, and the worse the grudge, the worse the sulk. Forgetting to get milk merits a good hour; calling him in on a boring case is a week. As I had no idea how long sensitivity-seminar sulking would last, I went with the former option.

"Sherlock, mind telling me what's wrong?"

Sherlock gave me his 'don't be an idiot' face, which told me nothing. I raised my eyebrows at him, to get him to speak. He rolled his eyes and sprawled out a bit more on the sofa.

"Were you not just witness to that conversation, John?"

"Well, yes, but I don't see what's so bad about it. You go, you sit, you pay no attention. Easy."

Sherlock sighed-the sigh that said, "You are all idiots and I don't know why I put up with any of you." Outwardly, he said, "I will be in a cramped, brightly-lit environment, frankly _surrounded _by idiots, listening to some timid little lecturer natter on about how _not_ to offend people- which, by the way, I take great pleasure in doing. Your relentlessly optimistic approach boggles the mind," he finished dramatically, tossing an arm over his face.

I barely resisted the impulse to roll my eyes like a kid. Sherlock would be Sherlock, no changing that. When he got like this, no amount of coaxing could make him shut up about how bleak the world is, how dull everyone is, how his heart is a black abyss and no one loves him, ad nauseam.

I shook my head and went to put the kettle on.

The next morning, Sherlock left the flat without so much as a glower, all dramatic coat and intimidating cheekbones. "Cheers!" I called to him as he swooped out, chuckling at my own good fortune (or lack of bad fortune) not to be attending.

Everything that transpired at the sensitivity seminar was told to me after the fact by Sherlock, and this is what I've managed to piece together about that four-hour period; he won't really talk about it, says he's justified.

When Sherlock Holmes turned up for this seminar, he found himself in (as predicted) a cramped desk next to Lestrade. Unfortunately, Lestrade's entire squad had been seated together, which put him within hearing distance of both Donovan and Anderson. I'm sure remarks were made which are better off not repeated.

Lestrade calmed them all down, except maybe Sherlock, and apparently this thing got on smoothly for the first half hour.

The lecturer introduced himself as Allen Lloyd- redhead, weedy chap, round horn-rimmed glasses. He began the seminar with pathetic attempts at humour, and then got on to the main event.

The device being used at this particular seminar was called the Talking Stick. It was, as Lloyd put it, a contract between all the people in the room (which would be all of Lestrade's precinct), giving them "freedom to express themselves completely, without judgment, in the confines of this room." Sherlock said later that he sensed something was about before any of this took place.

The Talking Stick- absurd as it sounds- was not dismissed; this training had apparently been mandated by rash actions of an officer in the precinct. Lloyd went on to explain about how everyone would have a turn, get their say.

At this point, Anderson snorted derisively.

"Alright, then…Jacob," Lloyd said, reading Anderson's name badge. "How about you begin, then?" Lloyd handed the stick over to Anderson. Anderson rolled his eyes. "Let's start with something simple. Tell us about your family. Any siblings?"

"An older sister."

"And what was that like?"

"I learned that hair-pulling was fair game," Anderson said sarcastically, to a general murmur of laughter.

Lloyd gave Anderson a look. "And what about your parents?"

"Just my mom."

"I see… Did your mother and sister influence, do you think, your perceptions of the female sex in general? You have our permission to be honest."

"I, er…I never liked my sister. She was a horror to be around…especially without her makeup on." More chuckles.

Lloyd did an American version of tutting, and shook his head. "Your inappropriate sarcasm, Jacob, masks anger. And…do you know what anger is? It's only fear. What's scaring you _so badly_, Jacob?"

At this point, I was initially told Anderson broke down in tears (probably an overstatement by a vindictive detective) and cried out his whole life story. Unlikely. I therefore went back to the source of my information to pry out the actual real truth.

Apparently, Sherlock chose this moment to pipe up, "That you'll pick up on the scent of three distinct perfumes clinging to his uniform, even though his wife has left the country for a week."

Lloyd rounded on Sherlock "like a great swooping mother hen," thrusting the Talking Stick at him. Sherlock took it, and that's when the proverbial shit really started to hit the fan. Lloyd nodded understandingly at Sherlock, and asked him, "Do you know why you're so closed off, Sherlock?"

Sherlock made no reply.

At this point, our favourite detective clammed up, all introspective, and Lloyd passed the stick around. People started talking about traumatic pasts and feelings and such, and by the time the seminar was over, four hours had elapsed. I can now go back to relating events as I recall them; they only get weirder.

When Sherlock came home, the first thing he did, after putting his coat on the hook (strange), was to call out my name. I called back that I was in the kitchen, and Sherlock gravitated there, standing in the doorway.

"Can I help you, Sherlock? Tea?"

Sherlock just looked at me, his humans-are-strange expression. "You're always so terse, John. I feel you shouldn't bottle things up so much."

I must have looked utterly gobsmacked. I recovered quickly, falling back on a British mainstay. "Right, then. Tea?" I asked again.

Sherlock nodded, going to flop in his usual spot on the couch. I fixed tea, and handed him a cup and sat in the armchair nearest the sofa. "So, er, how was sensitivity training?" I asked, half kidding.

"Oh, it was amazing, John. Hit me right _here_," he thumped one hand over his heart, with a complete lack of sarcasm. I'm sure my eyebrows shot up.

"Oh, good, that's good. And look, for once you're proven wrong and it's a good thing!"

"I'm sure I'll be back to normal soon enough."

"Good. Quite frankly, this is scary."

I went to put away the tea things, and when I came back, Sherlock was crying.

_Crying_.

He'd sat himself on the edge of the couch, put his head in his hands, and started bawling like a three-year-old in the ten seconds I'd been gone.

Sulking Sherlock, I could handle. Manic Sherlock, anorexic Sherlock, excited Sherlock.

_Crying_ Sherlock?

I sighed, and went over to him, sitting next to him. I patted his back tentatively as he started sobbing. I didn't realize he was saying words as well- muttering and crying don't seem to pair well.

"…lack of any parental figures, I just _shut myself off_. Mummy was so aloof, and Mycroft…an obstacle, I could never- never surmount." He was hiccoughing now as well, and I was hard-pressed to remain stoic and detached about this.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." I continued to pat his back.

"And you came along, and I thought, here's a man who cares for me, who keeps me on the straight and narrow, and John… You're my best friend, and I've _forced_ you into a parental ro- _role_, and given Freud's theory about the Oedipus complex, you're also the one I want to sleep with, and- and- "

I froze. My hand started back to soothing Sherlock before my brain fully caught up, and I stammered for a second before finding words. "Well, er, I'm flattered, and I'm, er, just fine in your, erm, parental role. Promise." I gave him a (hopefully) reassuring smile as he looked up, face all streaked with tears and snot and God-knew-what-else.

"Oh, John," he sighed, and hugged me.

For the third time, I froze. I then patted his back a few times, expecting him to let go. In retrospect, I should have known better. He clung like a gangly, high-functioning limpet, and I had to all but pry him off. "Now, let's get you into bed," I finally managed, over his continued snivelling.

"Will you tuck me in?" he asked, still attempting to cling. I led him to his bedroom patiently, sitting him down on the bed and taking off his shoes.

"Sure, Sherlock," I acquiesced, pushing his shoulders so he would lie down. I pulled the covers back as he shifted, pulling them up around him as he settled into a kind of foetal position.

"Will you kiss me goodnight, John?"

I took a deep breath. I drew (_still_ draw, thank you very much) the line at kissing Sherlock. Still, if it was between this and another bawling fit, I'd martyr myself.

For Queen and Country, I decided, placing a quick peck on Sherlock's forehead, and he was out like a light, leaving me to telly for the evening.

The next morning, Sherlock seemed, mercifully, back to normal. He was a little fidgety, which I chalked up to his sensitivity fit last night. Clearly, his recollection was foggy at best, but he seemed to remember making a complete arse of himself-if only in a vague way.

I'd just put tea on and he'd just got back to his experimenting when footsteps sounded on the stairs.

"It's Lestrade," called Sherlock from the kitchen, as I went to go answer the door. True to his guess (deduction-SH.), it was Lestrade, looking a strange combination of embarrassed, desperate, and amused. I offered him tea, and the three of us went into the sitting room.

"You've got a case for me," Sherlock started. "Talk."

Lestrade leaned back and put his hands on his knees. "Right, then, here's how it is. That talking-stick fellow, Lloyd, had a feed set up so he could monitor the Yard after the, er, seminar yesterday. Collected footage of our finest acting like…well, like total idiots," Sherlock coughed, "and he's demanding money or he'll release the footage."

Sherlock smirked. I gave him a look to remind him to play nice, and he stopped. "What exactly do you expect _me_ to do about this?"

Lestrade sighed. "We can't have our own working on this. Can't have it get back around to- well, to people who matter. You're discreet, you can go through channels we can't."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Are you looking for a burglar or a negotiator?" His voice lilted; he was not only interested, but amused. I knew already that he would take this case, if only for the smugness factor he'd get out of it-knowing that the people he'd pegged as idiots had genuinely acted like idiots.

"I'm looking for this to not get out of hand."

Sherlock tilted his head back and steepled his fingers. "Ah, I see. So the Yard is willing to pay…"

"Fifteen million quid."

"And Lloyd wants?"

"25 million. Can't get it, don't have it."

I felt my heart beat unhealthily fast; large sums of money tend to make me more than a bit nervous.

"And _what exactly_ is on this footage that is worth so very much money?" Sherlock asked, coolly. His family has money; to say that he's used to large numbers would be an understatement.

"The damn stick got passed around the Yard like some novelty toy. Some idiot," Sherlock coughed again, "let everyone out of the holding cells. Whole place was ransacked. As far as recording, we have phone calls, emails, texts, all gathered and put together and perfectly capable of bringing the Yard down. It's…this is bad, Sherlock."

Sherlock took the case.

The ransom demands had been made to the Director of the Yard, through text messages from a secure line; Moriarty had used a similar method, and I'm sure the same thing occurred to Sherlock. I saw his eyes sparkle- he'd already traced the crime as one of Moriarty's spider silk strands, and he was now enthused.

Lestrade handed over the phone where the texts from the blackmailer were stored; the last one established that Lloyd would be accepting the hush money only until 72 hours hence, and when it was time for the drop-off, he'd text directions.

Sherlock scrolled through them all with disinterest. I saw scheme after scheme flicker across his eyes; he was thinking intently about something, and it wasn't a ransom demand. It probably wasn't even strictly legal.

"And you absolutely can_not_ come up with the demanded funds?" Sherlock asked again.

"Not a chance," Lestrade said, looking tense.

"I see…" Sherlock paused. "This man is obviously experienced. A man like that has enemies."

"What are you thinking of, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked warily.

"Nothing at all," Sherlock lied badly. "Good morning, Lestrade."

Lestrade, with a last uneasy glance at Sherlock and the phone, left the flat.

I was completely bewildered by this point; surely the Yard had resources beyond Sherlock? If Lestrade was being put on this, though, I suppose, it was inevitable that it come to Sherlock to fix this mess. Sherlock had the added benefit of being able to imagine what happened with, say, Donovan or Anderson after the effect of this…whatever-it-was hit.

A second point came to mind, and I put a question to Sherlock, who was still idly scrolling through the texts from Lloyd.

"Sherlock, why doesn't he call Mycroft?"

I got nothing beyond a distracted 'hmmmmm' as an answer.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up at me, with his don't-be-an-idiot expression on full power. "Why on _Earth_ would he call Mycroft when I'm here?"

I really had to resist an overwhelming urge to roll my eyes. "Mycroft _is_ apparently the British Government; can't he just make this guy…disappear or something? I know he'd help Lestrade."

Sherlock let out a little 'ah' of comprehension. "I see; you think that because my brother has a horribly soft spot for our Lestrade that he would help him out. No, Mycroft is a firm believer that those who step in it must extricate themselves, unless there is some risk posed to his own sheltered comfort. Mycroft is- yes, _fond _of Lestrade, but he's no one's champion."

I nodded a bit. Sherlock's phone lit up, and a tiny buzzing noise told the world he'd gotten a text.

Sherlock grimaced at the screen. "From Mycroft," he groaned, shoving the phone at me. I caught it; there was no substance to the message except the name 'Allen Lloyd' and an address. "I'll have to do his _legwork_ for weeks now," Sherlock was moaning from the sofa. This time, I did roll my eyes. He was distracted enough by his own histrionics not to notice.

Sherlock seemed to be scheming all through the rest of the day, but he did not immediately set off on the chase for this Lloyd person. The following morning, however, he left the house at promptly 7:30 in the morning, but not before asking me if his 'besotted' face was up to par. I responded, after a demonstration, that it was just fine. He then told me not to attempt to contact him for the rest of the day and night, and to make myself scarce by eleven p.m., "just in case."

This is a perfect example of things you learn not to question when dealing with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was out for the entire day; as I no longer worked at the clinic and had no girlfriend or prospects to speak of (shocking, I know), I spent the time no more productively than I should have, drinking tea and watching daytime telly with Mrs. Hudson. By the time eleven o'clock rolled around, I was back in our flat, sick to death of talk shows and soap operas.

I fixed one last cup of tea and went up to my room, obeying a Sherlock that wasn't even there. Once there, I proceeded to contemplate the utter hopelessness of the circumstances. One mention of danger and the man has me wrapped around his pale pinkie.

I didn't hear Sherlock come in; I was out cold by midnight.

When I went downstairs the next morning, Sherlock was up, looking a bit worse for wear; he looked like he hadn't gotten a decent night's sleep, to say the least, but that was normal on cases. He'd done something active, then, beyond his usual imperious swooping about in his coat.

I ate breakfast, and he sat on the sofa going through an enormous trunk he'd apparently pulled from thin air, which contained what looked like instruments of torture. I opened my mouth to ask where he'd been and what time he'd gotten in last night, but he beat me to it, slamming the lid of the trunk shut.

"I was in by…four? Four-thirty? This morning. As for where I was, I was making headway on the case."

"At four in the morning?" I asked doubtfully.

"Yes, _at four in the morning_, John. I've gotten the full layout of Lloyd's residence."

I knew I was going to regret this, but I asked anyway. "And how'd you manage that?"

"I seduced his housemaid."

I spewed tea all over my breakfast. As I choked, Sherlock raised one eyebrow and made no move to help. When I'd recovered enough to speak, I promptly choked on my next sodden bite of egg, to think that _that_ was where Sherlock had been until…four in the morning.

When I'd recovered from that, I just looked at him. "Oh. _Oh_." His eyebrow was reaching the vicinity of his hairline.

"She wants me to marry her," he added offhandedly. I was bound and determined not to choke again, so I put aside my breakfast, which was considerably less appealing tea-soaked.

"Does she, now?"

"I'm apparently the most brilliant thing to ever fall into her cheap sheets. Or, well, Escott is."

From all this, I only took, "Escott?"

"I'm a plumber named Escott."

"'Course you are."

"And for her affections, I have a rival."

"'Course you do."

"It was _for the case_, John. Whatever is running through your head, out with it."

I sighed. "You're a manipulative bastard and you're getting more than me even when you aren't _you_."

Sherlock looked pleased. "Good. So you'll help me break into his house tonight?"

"No."

And thus, I found myself dragged along on yet another harebrained scheme with Sherlock and a large percentage of the contents of Sherlock's trunk, which had turned out not as torture instruments but housebreaking tools.

"We can't go through the door, but there's a greenhouse there," he whispered, pointing, "that's a blind spot to the security and the cameras, and it leads onto his drawing room."

"He has a _drawing room_?" I struggled to keep pace with the black-clad wannabe-Batman in front of me, which wasn't easy, as two of my steps match one of his. I remember thinking, _This does not, _not_ make me Robin_.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Of course he has a drawing room." He was speaking quietly, but that in no way hindered his sarcasm. "And massive Rottweilers set loose on this lawn every night, which you should presently be more worried about."

I froze-counterproductive-and found myself hauled along by Sherlock, who let out a little 'ugh.' "Relax, John, you've got a gun and they're all pinned up tonight anyway. I told Aggie- that's the housemaid- I'd come see her again tonight, and she wouldn't want me mauled by dogs before she had the chance herself."

I was considering hitting Sherlock, when we finally reached the greenhouse.

The adrenaline rush that always hits when I'm on a case with Sherlock hit as I watched him expertly pick the lock and bolt on the greenhouse, the door swinging open. All the while, Sherlock kept up a breathy chatter about Lloyd's habits, how he was a heavy sleeper and went to bed at ten-thirty, and "Aggie" had thought it hilarious. He picked the lock to the drawing room door, which was of the same sort as the one on the greenhouse, and eased open the door.

It was dark inside the house-no lights or televisions or anything on. Sherlock-who has of course trained himself to see in the dark-grabbed my hand and hauled me along behind him, completely silent, following the mental map in his head to what looked like a study.

When we reached that room, it was lit up by a fire in a generously-sized fireplace which threw illumination all over the study. Sherlock made immediately for the gargantuan safe behind a huge marble-topped desk, setting to work on it and chattering away under his breath.

"John, keep watch, this is too weird. If you hear anyone coming, lock the door and we'll be off the way we came. This Lloyd person has made it far too easy to access his…ah, there we are." The door of the safe swung open, revealing a truly impressive number of manila envelopes, all labelled with names and dates and contents. Sherlock whistled under his breath, muttering, "Oh, he's _good_," before riffling through them expertly and finding the one labelled 'Scotland Yard' and dated the day before yesterday.

He pocketed it, then froze utterly.

"Shit," he said, grabbing my hand before I'd cottoned on and hauling me behind a massive set of red curtains, pulling them nearly completely shut in front of us and freezing again.

Profanity from Sherlock is so rare that I didn't even think to question his actions, but I didn't need to, as the door opened and a redheaded weedy man stepped in.

Sherlock had closed the safe as he fled, but not properly. I peered through the millimetres-wide gap in the curtains and saw Lloyd take a seat at his desk, not glancing at the safe, and recline back in a posh office chair, putting some video on the laptop in front of him and sitting back to watch.

I felt Sherlock's hand nudge into the crook of my elbow and squeeze briefly, trying to reassure me that everything was under control. I loosened up a little, but not much, nodding minutely. I saw his twitchy smile in my peripheral vision.

Lloyd paused the video he was watching when the phone on his desk beeped. "Visitor for you, Mister Lloyd," a female voice spoke. He pressed a button and replied, "Send her through to the study, Aggie."

A few moments later, a woman dressed in a very upmarket business suit strode into the study, clutching a briefcase next to her. Lloyd smiled and steepled his fingers. "You're fifteen minutes late," he said, mock-benevolently. "No matter. You say you have papers and footage that compromise…a very illustrious person. I want to buy them."

The woman offered the briefcase to him and he stood to retrieve it, leaving his desk as he did so.

He knelt on the floor with the substantial case, opening it, nodding as he flipped through folder after folder, and then closing it, standing.

He smiled at the woman. "I believe we have a transaction."

"You don't recognize me?" The woman said in a deadly voice. "You _ruined _my _life_, you heartless bastard!" She drew from a holster around her waist a tiny pistol, firing off round after round into Lloyd, who crumpled to the floor, still holding the briefcase, and was still. She smashed his face with her heel and grabbed the briefcase, opening the window opposite us and careening out, window crashing down behind her.

"Shit, double shit, _goddamnit_," Sherlock breathed as he left the confines of the curtains like a racehorse out of the gate, rushing over to the safe and opening it again, grabbing envelopes in his arms and dumping them into the fire. "The whole damned house is awake, we'll have to be quick."

I crossed the room to a corner where something had caught my eye earlier- a weird reflection. I raised my ungloved hand to try to touch it, and a mirror designed to reflect the opposite (empty) corner swivelled around, revealing a shrine of some kind, glowing red. Sherlock had not found it yet, as he was still emptying the safe, but he turned to look at me.

"I found the stick," I said, reaching out to grab it off its pedestal and toss it in the fire as well.

"John, don't- " Sherlock started, but I'd already done it, picking the stick up in my bare hand before I realized I'd done so. Sherlock groaned, grabbing it away in his gloved hand and doing what I hadn't, tossing it into the fire, leaving the empty safe open, and motioning to me that I should follow him.

We left the way we came, Sherlock locking every door behind us as we ran for it.

The journey home and the rest of the night is a blur; I remember almost being caught as I ran, but tugging free; I remember Sherlock hailing a cab once we were far from Lloyd's house.

The next morning, I went downstairs feeling oddly refreshed. The case was over, Sherlock had won.

Sherlock.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, gargling what looked and smelled like bleach. After that, he wielded a toothbrush like it was a panzer unit at his teeth, scrubbing ferociously. As a doctor, I really should put a stop to this, I decided.

"When you've worn the enamel off, Sherlock, dentists recommend you stop brushing your teeth." Sherlock turned and saw me.

His hand dropped from his toothbrush, which hung comically in his bleeding, gaping mouth as he turned a shade of red which shall be henceforth referred to as "fire truck." The blush fled as quickly as it had come.

"Sleep well?" he asked, with completely fake casualness.

I remembered Sherlock's strange behaviour after his encounter with the talking stick, and I'm sure I blushed as deeply as Sherlock had. "Oh, God. What did I say?"

Sherlock spat the last of the blood-bleach-toothpaste cocktail into the sink and pressed his lips together as he looked at me, raking his glance all the way from top to toe before speaking.

"Erm. John. You must understand that last night was an isolated incident, and while I _am_ flattered by your interest, I _do_ consider myself married to my work, as I've told you before- "

"God, _stop_, Sherlock!" I howled, hands over my ears. "I just- don't even need to ever know, okay?"

Sherlock looked a bit relieved, but eyed the toothbrush and bleach as he spoke again. "Well, at least you didn't feel the need to reciprocate," he muttered in acquiescence.

Mercifully (_mercifully_) the footsteps of Lestrade sounded on the stairs again, followed by his knock at the door. Sherlock nearly flew past me in his haste to leave the now-tension-filled kitchen, answering the door.

Lestrade came in and stood awkwardly. "Well, Sherlock, we've got a case for you. Locked room, man murdered and burgled. It was Allen Lloyd."

"Was it?" Sherlock asked disinterestedly. "Looks like you'll not be needing me to negotiate your way out of what the Yard stepped in after all."

"Two men," Lestrade continued.

"Hmmm."

"One was too fast at getting away to be spotted, but the other was described as a middle-aged man, strongly built, square jaw."

"Very vague."

"Why we need you."

"Jesus, Lestrade, it could be a description of John!" Sherlock said suddenly, brightly. Lestrade's eyebrows shot up.

"It sure could. So…you didn't kill him, did you?"

"'Course we didn't _kill_ him, Lestrade."

"In that case…darn, no leads, no suspects, no Sherlock. Looks like a file for the cold cases."

"Looks like," Sherlock agreed, and Lestrade smiled and left, with a little salute over his shoulder.

I entered the sitting room after he'd gone. "What _did_ I say, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed.

"It's not so much what you _said_ as what you _asked _for…" he began.

I had a horrible feeling that this was going to be a long story.

Mood: Embarrassed

Listening to: 'Topless' (Breaking Benjamin)

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The bit at the end, especially the song, should explain a bit of what transpired.


End file.
